Thursday, November 19, 2009

A Tingling Misty Marvel

How silently they tumble downAnd come to rest upon the groundTo lay a carpet, rich and rare,Beneath the trees without a care,Content to sleep, their work well done,Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly flyUntil they nearly reach the sky.Twisting, turning through the airTill all the trees stand stark and bare.Exhausted, drop to earth belowTo wait, like children, for the snow.- Elsie N. Brady, Leaves

The morns are meeker than they were,The nuts are getting brown;The berry's cheek is plumper,The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf,The field a scarlet gown.Lest I should be old-fashioned,I'll put a trinket on. - Emily Dickinson

November comes And November goes, With the last red berries And the first white snows.

With night coming early, And dawn coming late, And ice in the bucket And frost by the gate.

The fires burn And the kettles sing, And earth sinks to rest Until next spring.- Elizabeth Coatsworth

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Welcome to On Bradstreet!

I'm Amy, 45, feminist, undisciplined artist, and the mother to two always-unschooled teens, one in college and one at home, and partner to Alex. Lover of making home and ritual. I sing to ducks and cuddle chickens on our farm in Maine.